


Five of Harry's Birthdays and One of Draco's

by geek_in_glasses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Birthdays, Breaking Up & Making Up, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Denial, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Stupid Boys, hopefully, i think so, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geek_in_glasses/pseuds/geek_in_glasses
Summary: Starting with Harry's 16th birthday, things start looking up. But it's always a long and twisted road where Draco Malfoy's concerned, and getting older doesn't necessarily mean the both of them are ready to grow up.





	Five of Harry's Birthdays and One of Draco's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Obsessiveidiot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessiveidiot/gifts).



> This is a Happy Birthday fic for my cousin, who's always encouraging me to write more about these beautiful (-ly stupid) boys. Happy sweet sixteen! Hope you enjoy it as much as Harry and Draco seem to (though maybe not in the same ways...!)

I.

Harry wakes up on the 31st of July seriously underwhelmed at the prospect of his birthday. He yawns, stretches, working out the kinks in his back, then rubs blearily at his eyes. The window by his four-poster is streaked with rain, and he takes a moment to appreciate the completely inexplicable summer shower - which has thoroughly muddied the grounds, by the looks of it - before rising and instinctively reaching for shimmery gossamer fabric under his bed, pairing it with his (surprisingly) fuzzy Hungarian Horntail slippers Hermione’d charmed for him after he’d won the first task of the Triwizard Tournament back in fourth year. That seems like ages ago, and _fuck_ , what he wouldn’t give to have his biggest problems be learning to _Accio_ things and finding appropriate hiding spots for Snuffles.

His heart clenches at the mention of his godfather, and he quickly pushes the unhelpful sorrow out of his mind as he drapes the invisibility cloak over himself and checks to make sure nothing’s showing. Between his t-shirt that’s got holes everywhere, and the dragon slippers (now issuing alarming snorts of actual fire - he makes a mental note to ask Hermione about that), it’s not much of a fashion statement, but then he supposes there are more important things to worry about than looking scruffy. Like, say, having a Dark Lord out for your blood with an army of minions ready to come at you at any given second. That’s a good reason as any, he guesses.

Harry’s been doing this more and more lately. Not caring about anything, really, like what he’s wearing or what he’s eating (which are perhaps just depressing leftovers from having lived with the Dursleys for so long), and his friends continue to nag him about it. Like Hermione’s knowing little side-eyes at the table before she rushes off to the library, or Ron’s exasperating little coughs as he refuses another serving of mashed potatoes, and even Ginny’s nudges when he leaves the table earlier than everyone else. He doesn’t mean to withdraw himself, but he feels better like this than partaking in conversations with some sort of false cheeriness, like one of those deer in fairy tales, prancing about in the woods, completely unaware of the lurking fox or wolf or something. And it doesn’t help that they’re all off talking about their futures and their career prospects, like its certain, when all he can see is Voldemort. It just isn’t fucking _fair_.

So now he’s gotten accustomed to waking up at completely random hours in the night and stumbling onto the Quidditch pitch in whatever’s he’s wearing plus the cloak. It’s the only place he still feels sane, usually rummaging around in the brooms cupboard for an old snitch that’s gone unused for a while and soaring on his broom as he tries to catch it. It’s never as good as a real snitch, ones they use in the actual games, and most of the times the wings are damaged or the ball is cracked, but Harry’s never quite gotten tired of that invigorating rush of being on a broom, flitting through the air or swooping recklessly towards the ground before, at the last second, pulling away. Sometimes he thinks he’d like to go further, to feel the crash jumble with the headiness of flying, to hit the ground hard and to feel that suddenness of being enveloped by unyielding ground, or have harsh blades cutting into his cheeks, his shoulders, everywhere. But those thoughts scare him more than he cares to admit, so he doesn’t dwell on them; instead, tucking them into the dark corners of his mind, he skims the grass with his fingertips, and watches the dew glisten in the light that begins to filter through.

That’s when he sees it. Him. Malfoy rides with the kind of careless grace that is so characteristic Harry can’t even be angry. He dismounts the broom quickly and stares unabashedly from behind a tree, watching the lean lines of Malfoy’s body be swallowed up as he wraps his cloak closer around himself and soars lower. Then, unexpectedly, he tips his head back, exposing a pale throat, and laughs. A real laugh, not a sneer like he loves to shoot in Harry’s direction, or a smirk, or even one of those pointy, evil grins. It’s a laugh. Harry catches himself staring, and luckily stops before thinking about how nice it looks, or even how much he wants to…

No. He’s not thinking about it, just watching as Malfoy cautiously lands and ruffles his hair, then glances around, as if searching for something. And then Harry sees the exact moment when he finds it, because now he’s locking eyes with Harry, and stalking over to him, and straightening his collar and robes (and shit, Harry can’t drag his gaze away from him for a second) and...the whole thing’s just so terrifyingly electric, Harry’s heart jumping to his throat as he realizes Malfoy’s known the entire time he was here.

When Malfoy reaches Harry, he’s done freaking out, done thinking about it. Instead, he drops the cloak as if they’ve planned this a hundred times before (how could they _not_ have, with the way they’re looking at each other - an aching desperation crackling in the mere inches, no centimeters, between them…) and crosses the tiny gap between them to twist his hands into luxurious platinum locks, groaning as he angles for the kiss Malfoy demands and Harry is only too willing to give.

As he slides his hands over aristocratic cheekbones and nudges his nose against the intoxicating swoop of Malfoy’s jaw before claiming his mouth again, Harry can’t help but think that this is it, and it’s right, and how could he have imagined even for a second that he wouldn’t spend his 16th birthday watching the sunrise with Malfoy tucked into his side, trading kisses and impossible little grins, flooding with warmth at the rays of light that turn everything bright and golden.


End file.
